


Give and Take

by CorvidFeathers



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, Complicated Relationships, F/M, Female Friendship, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Season 1, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-14 06:53:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5733790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorvidFeathers/pseuds/CorvidFeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Abigail is accosted by an officer at one of André's parties, Philomena comes to her rescue.  From there, an unusual friendship blooms between the two female spies whose fates are bound up with John André's, and Abigail has ample opportunity to return the favor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Abigail

**Author's Note:**

> I love Philomena and Abigail and I think they're criminally underrepresented! They don't interact in the show to my recollection, but I think they would make interesting friends if they were given the choice; so I set about writing it. John Andre is in here too, of course, because he's great.  
> This takes place roughly sometime after 1x10 and before 2x01.  
> I'm still new to the Turn fandom, so I would love any feedback you might have for me!  
> Note, this fic does contain an attempted sexual assault by an unnamed British officer, and a few references to sexual violence later.

Abigail slipped out of the doors of the dining room.  The hubbub of André’s party followed her out into the hall, along with the overpowering smell of spilled wine and other less savory things.  She stood in the hall for a moment, letting the faint wafts of fresh air coming in through the crack under the front doorway clear her head. 

Midnight had come and went, and the party was slipping into the small hours of the morning.  She sighed softly.  She was unlikely to get much sleep that night; she would have to be up early, cleaning up the mess her master and his guests always created.  It was better than scrubbing blood from the carpets, but only just.

It was nights like this made her miss Setauket, and the Strong household.  She always missed Cicero; that was a permanent ache that had lodged itself in her chest as soon as Anna spoke the words that had sent her off to York City.  Losing him had always been her greatest fear.  She had been torn from her own mother at a young age; the memory of her mother’s expression as they had led Anna away was still burned into her mind.  She could call it to her memory as if it were yesterday.  It was the last time she had seen her mother.

Missing Setauket was something different.

Abigail had been sold to Anna’s family, as a companion and a personal servant for their young daughter.  At first she had been inconsolable; but quietly, because her mother had made her promise that she would keep herself safe, that she would survive, and the only way to survive was to shut away her grief for the few hours she had to herself.  But she had been only a child, and children put behind the worst more quickly than adults; she had adjusted to her new life in time. 

Her life had become intertwined with Anna’s.  She had been Anna’s childhood playmate, and had been the one to mend the tears in Anna’s dresses, had scrubbed them clean of grass stains and dirt in secret so Anna wouldn’t be punished for running wild with Abe and Ben and Caleb.  She had helped Anna sneak away to meet Abe, and it had been her arms that Anna had sought when he broke Anna’s heart, several times over.  By then, Abigail had a son.

When Anna’s engagement to Selah had come, Abigail understood her mother’s fear viscerally.  It was without question that she would be part of Anna’s dowry; but her son was almost as old as she had been when she had been sold.  Anna had quelled those fears, and Abigail had let herself think that perhaps, perhaps her little family would be safe.  Anna was fond of her, in a conceited way; she could no more picture her life without her than Abigail could fathom a life without her son.

Until Hewlett’s order.

How cruel that was, offering Abigail a glimpse of freedom, a glimpse of something she had only dared to dream about in the darkest hours of the night.  To have that offered, and in the next breath, snatched away; and even crueler, telling her she was going to York City without Cicero.  All at once she had been forced to realize how fragile the order of her life had been. 

Serving André’s household was not so bad as she had feared it would be.  He was a generous master, and in some ways she was more of a servant than a slave, though of course she had not been freed. 

Most importantly, he trusted her.  As much as André trusted anyone.  For all his cleverness, he did not seem to put a thought towards doubting the loyalty of a slave.

That gave her the opportunity to secret away little bit of information, anything that might be useful to Anna, anything that might keep Anna safe.  So Anna could keep Cicero safe.  So Abigail could provide for her son.

Most of the wages André paid her went to Anna, for Cicero’s care; the rest she saved, secreted away to a growing cache she kept under her mattress.  Little by little, she was gathering enough to buy her freedom.  For now, she was content to be where she was, serving as the eyes of Anna, and by extension, Ben Tallmadge.  The Continental Army.

But things seemed likely to change quickly.  Violently, perhaps.  André played the role of a fool, at times, but there was always a sharp look in his eyes, a hunger that was a constant reminder of how dangerous he really was.  He threw parties that flew in the face of the war, and was ever the gracious host, but he was always watching. 

Whatever happened, Abigail would have a way out.

“Hey!”  A harsh shout pulled Abigail from her thoughts.  She straightened, and stared at an inebriated British officer who had just emerged from the dining room.  He looked worse for the wear; his wig was comically askew, and he was swaying on his feet.  His rough face rang no bells in Abigail’s mind; she had not seen him in André’s household before.

“Good evening sir,” she said, bobbing in a quick curtsy before trying to slip past him.

His hand flashed out, surprisingly quick for one so drunk, and caught her arm in a crushing grip.  “Damn… suppose you’ll do, girl.  André likes his slaves pretty, eh?”  He pulled her closer, and leaned in.  The feeling of his hot, rancid breath against her face provoked an involuntary shudder, and she tried to wrench away from him. 

His other hand closed on her waist, his fingers digging into the skin underneath her dress.  Abigail was strong, but this man had a grip like iron, and even as she struggled she knew she could not lash out.  Defending oneself meant death for a slave.

“Hold still,” the officer slurred.  “Do’ya want to make a ruckus?  You know… André won’t tolerate you assaulting one of his officers, no matter how pretty you are.”

Years of instinct overcame her, and Abigail stilled.  She closed her eyes as he pulled her close again, and mashed his wet lips against her mouth.

“Colonel!”  A high voice broke the horror of the moment.  The officer glanced back, and Abigail opened her eyes.

A woman was standing in the hall.  Abigail recognized her as one of the courtesans who was a regular at André’s parties.  She was a slim, pretty woman with a head of golden-brown hair and large eyes.  Abigail had seen her disappearing up the stairs with an older officer earlier.  She bore the marks of her exertions; one of her sleeves was slipping off her shoulder and her hair was tangled in a wild halo around her head.

None of that, apparently, detracted from her obvious charms in the eyes of the officer who had a hold on Abigail.  He turned, and his grip on her arm loosened.

“I’m afraid the girl’s not on the menu tonight,” the courtesan said, her voice soft and rich.  She batted her eyes at the soldier.  “But Major André wouldn’t want you to go without entertainment.”

The soldier practically started salivating.  With his attention consumed by the courtesan, Abigail slipped from his now-slack grasp, and put a few feet of distance between them.  He didn’t seem to notice.

The courtesan beckoned the soldier, and then, when he lurched forward slowly, stepped down from the stair and came to take his arm. 

As they mounted the stairs, the courtesan threw a glance back, and winked at Abigail.

Abigail wanted to shout a thanks after her, but that would have given the game up.

She let herself breathe a sigh of relief when the footsteps stopped, and hurried back to the kitchens.  No matter what her orders were, she was not going to venture into the dining room again until the officers were abed or gone.

A few hours later, Abigail was in the kitchen scrubbing the last of the dishes from the party.  It was the smallest of her worries from the party, but it was easiest when done first. 

She wondered how the household had managed before she came.  Maybe André had had another slave, one he had sold.  The thought made her insides twist a little.

Abigail heard light footsteps ad down the hall, and pause at the door of the kitchen, but she didn’t turn around. 

“Hello?” A lilting voice said. 

When she finally set down the plate she was scrubbing to look behind her, the whore who had come to her rescue was sitting at small table in the kitchen that served as the servant’s table, as bold as could be. 

She did not look quite as lovely as she had before; one of her eyes was blackened, and dark blood trickled from a gash on her lower lip.

She met Abigail’s stare with a nonchalant shrug.  “That colonel was a brute.” 

Abigail felt a sickening sense of relief, followed quickly by guilt.  Relief that the officer had not succeeded in forcing her; guilt that this woman had taken her place. 

The courtesan smiled.  It looked slightly morbid with her bloody lip.  “Don’t look so worried.  Entertaining the brutes is what I’m here for.” 

Abigail shook her head. “The Major should not be permitting men like that into his home.”  He was a compassionate master to Abigail, or at least it up a good show of being.  She found a clean rag, and dipped it in one of the buckets of clean water waiting to be used in the washing, and held out to the courtesan.  “For your face.”

The courtesan smiled again, and accepted it.  “The Major must accept the likes of men like that.  At least once…”  She shook her head.  “Thank you.”  She pressed the cloth against her eyes and winced. 

“Thank you,” Abigail replied, looking at the courtesan for a moment longer, before turning back to her scrubbing. 

“My name is Philomena,” the courtesan said. 

Abigail glanced back at her.  “I’m Abigail, miss.”

Philomena laughed.  “I’m no miss,” she said lightly.  “I’m just another working girl.  Like you.”

Abigail didn’t answer.  Philomena might have been a whore, but she was clearly a well paid one; she had freedom far beyond what Abigail could ever hope for. 

For a while, the kitchen was silent, aside from the rhythmic sound of Abigail scrubbing and the clang off dishes bumping each other.

“Why did you do that?” Abigail said at last.  She had been turning the thought over in her head.  Abigail was the one who helped; no one offered her assistance, and she didn’t need any.  She had survived being separated from her mother, had taught herself to read from the books Anna discarded in favor of adventures in the woods, had born a son and raised him to survive too, by herself.  She had been sent off to York City, the household of a man who was the enemy of all she had known, and survived. 

She had survived worse than the drunken advances of a soldier, and yet, she was immeasurably grateful to have been spared that.  Grateful in a way she couldn’t fully voice, because it was twisted up with confusion, and shame, and anger that the soldier could have hurt her and she had not been able to strike back.  As it always had been.

“What?” Philomena was resting the side of her head on her flattened hands on the table.  She lifted her head gingerly.  “Stop that colonel from forcing himself on you?  Because I could.”  She laughed.  “There are too many cruel men and too much cruelty altogether in the world.  And I know how that feels, to be the one powerless.”  Her smile was bright, but there was a touch of bitterness.  “And because entertaining those brutes isn’t your job, anyway.  And I have a bit more power than they might think.”  She propped her chin up with her hands.  “Besides, we’re both in the situation of working with the Major; we’re on the same side.  We might as well look out for each other.  No one else is going to.”

Abigail considered this for a moment, and then smiled back at her.  “That sounds sensible.”

“Good,” Philomena said, grinning.  With agility that was surprising given her recent exertions, she jumped to her feet and came to examine the pile of dirty dishes.  Her nose wrinkled, but she picked up a plate and one of the clothes and started scrubbing.  “It will be done faster this way.”

Abigail opened her mouth to protest, and then shrugged and resumed washing the dishes, with Philomena at her side.  At first they worked in cautious silence, but Philomena sparked a conversation with a story of the worst theatrical endeavor she had ever had a role in- apparently she had been an actress, not too long before- and coaxed Abigail into reciprocating with stories of the outlandish things that had been demanded of her.  She did not let down her guard completely; she was not sure she would ever do that around anyone but the one person she knew she could trust- her son. 

Abigail left Philomena doing the last few dishes and went to see to the mess in the dining room.  When she returned, the dishes were done, and Philomena was fast asleep at the wooden table, her head pillowed in her arms.  Or maybe not so fast asleep- she lifted her head blearily as Abigail began to put together some food for herself. 

“Is that breakfast?” the courtesan murmured.

Abigail laughed.  “Of course,” she said, and cut enough bread off the loaf for the both of them.  She didn’t think André would object to her feeding one of his entertainments; a bit of bread, cheese, and eggs would be the least of the night’s expenditures.  She finished preparing the food, and sat down at the table. 

Again, Philomena managed to coax conversation out of her.  She was very good at that, Abigail was quickly learning.  She had a way of looking at her conversation partner like her whole world hung on their words, and had more than enough stories to fill any silences.

In all her charm, she managed to make Abigail forget all the reason she shouldn’t be drawn into familiarity with this woman.  It was as if a dam inside of her broke.

She had always been someone of few words. It was surprising how much of a relief it was to be able to speak again, candidly.  But she had spent so long with most of her words bottled up.  Who could she talk to, in York City?  Not Major André, and he was the only person she saw with any regularity.  He didn’t keep much of a household, despite how much he enjoyed his luxuries.  A smaller household was easier to keep track of, he had told her at one point.  Easier to trust.

“... and so he ran all the way back through the woods, half-naked,” Abigail finished the anecdote.  “Thank the Lord he never found out who was responsible… but he deserved it.  That way Anna laughed herself sick instead of crying over him.”

Bright spots blossomed on Philomena’s cheeks as she laughed.  Her laughter was infectious; and Abigail couldn’t help chuckling at the recollection of Abraham’s humiliation.

The sound of their laughter masked that of footsteps in the hall; Abigail didn’t realize André was standing in the doorway of the kitchen until Philomena glanced up.  “Major,” she giggled.  “Good morning to you.”

Abigail was out of her seat in a moment, retreating back to the other side of the kitchen.  She should never have allowed herself to lose track of time like that, to let herself be distracted; but to be fair, André was up much earlier than he normally was after such a night.  And he rarely ventured into the kitchen; that was a servant and slave’s domain.

“Good morning Philomena,” André said, rubbing his temples.  He looked rather less orderly than usual; his hair was hanging at his shoulders, and his face had pale cast.  “Did my ears deceive me, or did you coax a laugh from our quiet Abigail?”  He glanced over at Abigail, appearing to notice her change of position for the first time.  “Oh, don’t rise on my account.  I didn’t mean to disturb you.”  He yawned, and waved for her to sit back down.  “This is hardly the hour to stand at attention.”

“I think the hour is always right for that,” Philomena said, and batted her eyelashes at him.  Abigail glanced between them, and then sat down at the other side of the table. 

He grinned back, but his smile fell a moment later.  “What happened?” he said, crossing the room to her.  “Who did this?”  He took her face in his hands gently, and tipped her face up to get a better look at her bruised eye and split lip.

Philomena grimaced.  “That colonel, the new one,” she said, with a roll of her eyes.  “If I had not intervened, he would have forced himself on Abigail.”

André looked up at Abigail.  His gaze was remarkably sharp, for one who had displayed such bleariness minutes before.  “Is this true?”

Abigail stared at him for a moment, and then nodded.  “Yes, sir.”

André cursed.  “I’ll see that he isn’t invited back.”  He thought about it for a moment, and shook his head.  There was a genuine look of remorse in his eyes that Abigail wasn’t sure what to think of.  “I’m sorry, Abigail.  I should have anticipated something like this.  I’ll make it clear to any further rowdy guests that you are off limits.”  He pulled one of the kitchen chairs up next to where Philomena was sitting, and sat down next to her.  “You’ve entrusted me with your lives; it is my responsibility to keep you safe.”  He brushed back a curl from Philomena’s face, and ran his thumb gently over her cut lip, to wipe away a bit of blood.  “I was remiss in my duties, and I will not make that mistake again.” 

Philomena laughed delicately, but there was real relief in the way she relaxed into his touch, as if the strings holding her up had been cut.  Abigail felt uncomfortably like she was intruding on something.

“Abigail?  Would you mind going down to the cellar and chipping off a bit of the ice, for Philomena’s eye?” André asked.  Abigail knew an order when she heard one.  She retreated from the room quickly, feeling oddly voyeuristic.

When she came back down the hall with a few chips of ice in a cloth, she heard Philomena murmuring quietly to André.  She paused, and listening.

“said… thinks that… inept commander…”  She could only pick up a few of the phrases, but enough to get the gist of the conversation.  No wonder Philomena was so comfortable setting into André’s house; she was clearly more than a prostitute.  She was one of his spies.  In what capacity?  Just spying from the beds of his fellow officers, or could she be sent elsewhere? 

She couldn’t risk lingering in the hallway any longer.  With these new thoughts dancing around her head, she stepped loudly the rest of the way down the hall.  By the time she slipped into the kitchen, Philomena and André were quiet, though they were closer together than they had been when she left. 

André took the rag-wrapped ice with a slight smile, and leaned over to press it gently against Philomena’s eye.  She reached up to hold it there.  “I fear it will be some time before I can entertain again, Major,” she said.

“I believe I gave them quite enough amusement to sate their appetites, for a little while at least,” André said.  “In any event, I don’t believe I will waste you on an event like that the next time.  I have better ideas.”

Philomena laughed, and leaned closer to the Major, resting her head on his shoulder.

Abigail stepped over to the stove and clanged the dishes about for a moment, before setting to work at cooking in earnest.  A glance over her shoulder gave her the slight, petty satisfaction that André had put his hand to his temples again, trying to calm his headache.

She had no qualms with his or Philomena’s dalliances, but they had looked about to engage in affairs best kept out of her kitchen.

Her kitchen.  She was beginning to think of André’s house that way; she was beginning to think of York City at home.  The thought was discomfiting.  No place was home without her family.  Without Cicero.

“You look sad again, Abigail,” Philomena called, twisting André’s blond braid between her fingers. 

Abigail forced herself to smile.  “It’s nothing, miss,” she said.  “I only have work to get to.”

“Nonsense,” André said, turning towards her.  “I have no stomach for breakfast, and I’m of a mind to go back to bed and let any of my guests stumble out on their own.”  He tugged gently on one of Philomena’s curls.  “No doubt you’ve been up late cleaning; why don’t you take the morning off?  Or better yet, the day.  I’m sure we can muddle on without you.”  He caught her gaze in those perceptive eyes of his, and held it.    “You can go out to the market, and buy something for your son.” 

She smiled.  Whatever motivations drove the Major to figure out what made a slave woman tick, Abigail wouldn’t question them then.  She was just glad that she had that one link to Cicero.  And Setauket, and Anna, and the Continentals.

It was a measure of kindness André didn’t have to afford her.  Perhaps it would be one that brought his world tumbling down around him, one day.

But for now, Abigail was content to smile and think not of secret messages and Setauket, but only of her son, and the strange, quiet domesticity of the Major and his actress agent curled together at the table.  It was a little bit endearing.

And a whole day to herself, to explore the city.  She would need to cautious, but she always was.  It was her nature.

She didn’t question the gift. 

“Thank you, Major,” she said, curtseying.  “It was good to meet you, Philomena.”

“The pleasure was mine,” Philomena said, flashing her a bright smile.

Whatever came to be, Abigail decided, she would not turn over Philomena to the Continentals, unless it was absolutely necessary.  Woman like them had to look out for each other.


	2. Philomena

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Abigail's turn to save Philomena.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took way too long to write and I'm not super happy with how it turned it out but the ideas are there. I love these guys so much aaa  
> I would love any feedback you guys have to offer, I'm still working on getting a feel for these characters and how they interact.  
> If you want to scream about Turn with me feel free to hit me up over on tumblr! I'm corvidfeathers there as well. I have a lot of Turn feelings.  
> Warning for non-graphic descriptions of torture in this chapter.

Philomena’s perception of the world had faded to the cracked brick wall in front of her, and voices of the men who snarled and snapped around her, setting the tempo of dull blows that punctuated their questions.

Her voice was hoarse and broken when she mumbled something, a denial. It was as weak and bewildered as she felt. It did not feel like long ago that she had stood onstage and played the tortured maiden; it did not seem long ago that she had sat at a card table and smiled as she pretended to be tortured for the benefit of her turncoat Continental general.

She was a consummate actor; she had held the images in her mind of the tortures André’s men would have put her through just as she had once familiarized herself with the backgrounds of the characters she played on stage. She had fancied that she could imagine what it felt like to be tortured; she’d been put through enough in her life.

None of it had prepared her for this. The men didn’t know what they were doing; they had none of André’s cold composure, and not enough cleverness to share between them. But they were scared, and angry, and they had her figured out. Maybe it wasn’t even about her anymore; it was that they had finally found some embodiment of the British military that they could hurt without being hurt back.

“Who do you report to?” one of them said, yanking her head back by her hair. She stared up at him, trying keep a stoic face. This was just another role. Just another role…

He slammed his first against her eye.

It _hurt_. It hurt it hurt it hurt it hurt.

A sob caught in her throat, and if her hands hadn’t been tied she would have cradled her face.

“Stop crying!” another one of them hissed.

“P-please…. I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,,,” she whimpered. “Please…”

She leaned back against the wooden support they had tied her to, watching them pace back and front of her through her tears. A part of her was detached, still absorbed in the calm flippancy that had served her so well on stage and in André’s schemes. But that part was growing weaker, and what little self control she had was slipping away.

A booted foot lashed out and caught her in the stomach. She doubled over against the rope that was wound around her middle, coughing. For a few dizzying seconds she couldn’t breathe.

“… she may not be…” the men were talking in the low voices. She dropped her head to her chest, going slack against her bonds and straining her senses to listen in.

They were locals, men who had once been rabble-rousers of a patriotic bent, but had not joined the Continental Army, and now lived uneasily under military rule. She had been tasked with nothing more than getting a taste of the loyalties in the area, and finding out the names of those most likely to be informers for the other side.

It was going to be easy.

She had not been subtle enough.

The concept of time had drifted away from her in the windowless cellar, but the men were impatient. Several of them were wavering, but unwilling to face the fact that maybe they had just beaten and interrogated an innocent woman. It took all Philomena had not to smile.

She lifted her head, tilting it to the side, and let another pitiful “Please…” slip from her lips.

One of them spun on her. “She’s no innocent,” he snarled. “She’s a viper, sent to poison us. Don’t be fooled by that mournful face; any real woman would be insensate by now.”

There was not any more debate before the pain started again.

 

* * *

 

 

The war, and the subsequent military occupation, was taking a heavy toll on York City. When Abigail had first arrived, she had thought it a wild and dangerous place in comparison to sleepy Setauket; the state of the city had only worsened, and she had learned to ignore what once would have terrified her. The riotous, frenzied atmosphere of the city was quickly slipping away, to be replaced with something even more volatile: despair. The citizens were hungry, tired, and beginning to become desperate. An undercurrent of resentment ran through the collective psyche of all, and passerby kept their eyes on the ground instead of greeting each other. Crime was becoming more common, despite the heavy military presence. The city was chafing under the tight control the Regulars could not hope to maintain.

Abigail skirted a small group of young men standing at a corner, and reached up to adjust her headdress. A brutal midsummer heat wave had settled over whole state, making life more difficult, and worsening the collective mood of the city.

Despite this, life in Major André’s household went on as usual, or nearly as usual. Major André was often away of late, spending long hours in meetings with General Howe and other officers, and the number of lavish parties he threw had lessened in the last month. Instead, he spent much of the night locked up in his study, when he wasn’t with General Howe. Abigail was constantly on the edge, instinctively expecting something to happen any day, though she had no idea what it would be.

André’s absence had given her ample opportunity to search out more information to pass on to Anna, but she was still cautious. She had heard from him of the brief conflict in Setauket, and its consequences; learning Simcoe had been court-martialed and was once again away from the town was a relief, but that relief was tempered with the knowledge that she had to be more careful than ever. Hewlett’s report on the rebel raid had contained a note of Anna’s heroic escape from her Patriot husband who had her ‘captured’. André had read that part of the report aloud to Abigail in amusement, noting the other major’s effusive praise of her former mistress, but Abigail couldn’t help worrying that he would draw the conclusion that was probably right, that Anna had stayed to spy, and from there realize that perhaps Abigail was in on the scheme as well.

Far-fetched worries, a part of her knew, but ones that circled around and around her head as the days grew hotter and the city edged further into despair.

Abigail forced her thoughts from her worries as she approached the market, and fixed a friendly expression on her face as she did the morning’s shopping. The pickings were thin, and the prices steeper than ever, but André’s small household was easier to shop for now that he was more occupied with military matters than parties.

She made short work of the shopping, and headed back towards André’s house, basket in hand. As she was climbing the steps up to the door, a voice hissed her name.

“Abigail!”

Abigail froze, and turned around slowly, her eyes going back to the street. The speaker did not make themselves apparent immediately; the street was virtually empty, aside from a detachment of Regulars marching down it.

“Over here,” the voice said again. It was coming from the small alleyway in between the Major’s residence and the next house over.

A woman was crouched there, partially hidden by a stack of crates, and obscured by a dirty piece of heavy cloth- it looked like canvas- that was wrapped around her. She set her basket down, and approached the figure with some hesitance.

As she approached, a woman- turned her face up to look at Abigail.

It took a moment for Abigail to recognize her. Her face was a wreck- mottled purple and brown with bruises, dirt, and dried blood. Her golden-brown hair was matted into a mud-colored mess, and one of her eyes was swollen almost shut. But it was Philomena, the courtesan.

André’s spy. A British spy.

A spy who had helped her.

She pushed aside her concerns about André’s schemes and the tide of the war, and hurried to kneel by Philomena. “What happened?” she murmured. She reached a hesitant hand out to push back the dirty cloth from Philomena’s face.

The courtesan flinched away, and then made a visible effort to still herself, and let Abigail pull down the cloth. Underneath, she was wearing a tattered dress that did little to conceal the beating she had taken. Abigail breathed in sharply, but made no other reaction.

“I… was not as clever as I thought I was,” Philomena murmured. Her voice was raspy and wrecked. “They… they found me out. Patriot sympathizers, not soldiers, or… or I would be dead, like as not. I escaped.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I didn’t know what to do I… I…” The tears dripped down her face, making tracts in the smudged dirt. “I don’t… I shouldn’t have… what will i tell the Major?”

A valid worry, but Philomena did not need to be reminded of that at that moment. Abigail smiled, and carefully slipped her arm under Philomena’s, to help her stand. “You don’t have to worry about that now. he’s gone for the day, and I don’t know when he will return. He may not return tonight.”

Philomena relaxed marginally at that. Abigail hurried her inside, mindful of any prying eyes that might be watching André’s house. No doubt a slave escorting in a badly injured woman of questionable virtue into the house of How’s head of Intelligence would raise a few eyebrows, but Abigail had little choice in the matter. She would not abandon the woman.

She got Philomena inside, and shut the door behind them.

Abigail considered leading her to one of the guest rooms, but quickly dismissed the idea in favor of her own small quarters; there she had at least nominal ownership, and could shield the spy from the worst of André’s wrath if necessary. The Major was a courteous man, but she had seen how he could react to failures. Admittedly, those failures he had reacted to had been… extreme, but Abigail had no idea of the magnitude of Philomena’s mistake.

“Thank you,” Philomena murmured, letting her head drop down to her chest. She sat there, half-slumped over and limp, like a puppet with its strings cut. It was a disturbing contrast to the animated woman Abigail had met before.

Abigail couldn’t find any words. She had plenty of experience cleaning up messes and patching up the skinned knees and bloodied noses Anna and her friends and accrued over their youth, and taking care of her son’s minor ailments and injuries, but this was… something else. She did not even know where to start. A doctor should definitely be summoned, but that was out of the question.

The silence and Philomena’s glazed stare were an unnerving combination. “What did they do to you?” Abigail said at last, gently easing the rough canvas covering away from Philomena’s shoulders, and then undoing the laces of her tattered dress. She went slowly, mindful of every wince and breath the other woman took.

“… Just beat me,” Philomena said, her lips twitching into something like a smile. “Nothing worse than that. They probably planned on worse, but I’ve always been a slippery person. They couldn’t hold me for long.” She gave Abigail a gruesome smile that was entirely empty of any actual mirth.

Just was an understatement, but… Abigail was glad she had escaped before they could do worse.

Getting Philomena out of her dress and corset was a long, painful process, but at last Abigail managed to maneuver the tattered garments off. She couldn’t tell what color they had been; no amount of washing and sewing could repair the damage. It would be better to burn them.

Philomena stretched gingerly, seeming unconcerned about her nakedness. Despite the inescapable heat of the day, she was trembling. A sheen of sweat stood out on her bruised face, and when Abigail brushed a hand against her brow, her skin felt hot. Fevered.

Abigail swallowed, and went to fetch a basin of water. She managed to scrounge up some bandages, too.

When she got back to the room, Philomena was curled up under her blanket, shivering miserably. “I shouldn’t have come here,” she rasped as Abigail peeled back the blanket. “I…. I… the Major… he’s going to… “ She choked over her words.

“Don’t worry about him now,” Abigail said, putting her arm under Philomena to gently push her upright into a sitting position. The courtesan made a small whine of protest, but Abigail had dealt with enough protesting from Anna and Cicero that it didn’t make her flinch. Cleaning and bandaging the open cuts was necessary, or they might go septic and kill her. They already might; Lord only knew the conditions she had been kept in, and it was clear a fever was already setting in. “He doesn’t even have to know you are here, if you don’t want him to.”

Philomena stared up at her, wide-eyed and not fully comprehending. Abigail’s words hadn’t touched the panic that lurked in her eyes. “I…” her words trailed off into an incomprehensible mumble. She was trembling under Abigail’s touch, so violently it made cleaning the dirt and blood from her wounds more difficult.

“You’re safe,” Abigail said. She repeated it, quietly and steadily, until the shuddering had eased a little and Abigail could resume her ministrations.

Every now and then the pressure of the cloth would be too much, and she would flinch away and whimper piteously. Abigail would let her recover for a moment, and then continue.

Slowly, Philomena seemed to recover from her stupor.

“I… I thought I could bear it,” Philomena said, after Abigail had finished cleaning the cuts and had begun to bandage them. “I didn’t understand how… how horrible it would be.” She laughed. “That sounds so silly, doesn’t it? I thought, I’ve been hurt before, I’ve played at being tortured… surely it couldn’t be that bad.”

Abigail wound a length of cloth around one of Philomena’s wrists, which bore the chafing marks of a rope. It was clear how much she had struggled; the rope had bit deep into her skin.

“You never know had bad anything will be, until it happens,” Abigail said. How much had she worried about Cicero being taken away from her? The separation had hurt even worse than she might have imagined.

“I suppose that’s right,” Philomena said, staring down at her ruined wrists. “Hah, now I know how bad it is. It will never be so bad again.” She smiled.

The expression was so incongruously bright Abigail laughed. “It would be better to avoid it entirely.” She winced, and put a hand to her lips. “If you can avoid it, that is.”

Philomena laughed. “Maybe a better spy could have. I will endeavor to be a better spy. Major André…” she trailed off, and her expression fell.

Try as she might, Abigail couldn’t coax another word from her.

After the long, tortuous process was at an end, Abigail helped Philomena into one of her spare slips, an old, loose one that would not chafe against her bruises, and tucked her back into the bed. Her fever seemed higher, to the touch at least, so Abigail went to get some water and to dispose of the bloody clothes and her filthy clothes..

As she was making her way down the hall, she heard the front door open.

“Abigail? Abigail!” André’s call was uncharacteristically demanding. Abigail jumped, and then went quickly to the front hall.

Major André was standing in the doorway, holding… the basket of vegetables she had left on the front steps and completely forgotten about in her haste. His expression was worried.

“Sorry, Major,” she said, stepping forward to take the basket. “I was bringing it home and set it on the stoop for a moment and it just slipped my mind-”

André didn’t let go of the basket. He was staring at her hands. “Abigail, what is that?”

Abigail glanced down at the bloody cloths and clothing in her hands, and then back up at him, remembering her promise to Philomena. “Sir… nothing that would-”

“Abigail,” André’s voice was sharp. “Tell me what is going on.”

 

* * *

 

 

Philomena recognized André’s voice, even muffled and indistinct as it was through the walls. She wrapped her arms around herself and burrowed deeper under the blankets, trying to wrestle down the panic that flooded through her at the thought of seeing him. The panic and the shame.

She had once told him, teasingly, that the entire scrawny might of the rebel army was not enough to draw his secrets from her, such was her loyalty.

It had not even taken one soldier; just a handful of thugs with fists.

The voices were growing louder; two sets of footsteps made their way down the hall.

They stopped a few steps from the room. Abigail’s voice rose, louder than Philomena had ever heard the woman speak before.

“She’s not in a state for company, especially not male company.”

“I appreciate your concern for decency, but given you brought her into my home, I assume you are aware of the nature of her work. It is imperative that I speak to her..” André’s tone was measured, but there was an impatient edge to it.

“With all due respect, it would be best if you waited, sir,” Abigail said. “If you want to keep her alive, you should summon a doctor before putting your questions to her.”

“Should I?” André said. He sounded… amused. “I will not interrogate Philomena cruelly; I will ask her a few questions, and then summon a doctor, if her condition is as you say. May I get past you, now?”

Philomena blinked. What was Abigail doing? Arguing with the Major was… surprising, for a slave. Or maybe not surprising; Philomena remembered the steel that lurked beneath the other woman’s polite demeanor from their previous encounter.

Still, it was bold.

Philomena pushed the blankets off, and climbed to her feet. Her legs felt as wobbly as a newborn calf’s; she had to cling to the wall to remain upright, and her progress across the room was slow. But at last she reached the door, and managed to push it open enough to look into the hall.

Abigail and Major André were engaged in a quiet standoff. Abigail was standing in the middle of the narrow hall, effectively blocking the way to her room. André was looking down at her, looking unsure whether to be amused or annoyed at this obstacle.

The door creaked on its hinges as she leaned on it, and drew both of them to notice her at the same time. She looked away, unable to meet André’s eyes. He would… he would… What would he do to her? She had seldom seen him anything other than approving, but she knew the danger that lurked beneath his gentleman’s demeanor. The business of spycraft was deadly serious to him, and however much he liked to mix business and pleasure with her, business came first.

She clung to the doorframe, staring down at her bare feet.

“Philomena?” André said, and she tried to look up at him, but she moved her head too fast, and the room spun sickeningly around her. Her hands scrabbled on the doorframe, trying to keep her grip, but her balance was thrown hopelessly off and she tumbled to the ground.

The last impression she had was of a cold hand on her forehead, and then nothing.

 

* * *

 

 

Abigail drew her hand back from Philomena’s brow, and looked up at André with a small sigh.

He looked chastened. “Perhaps you were right,” he said with a little shake of his head, looking down at his spy. “You were right to bring her in here- I do have an interest in her wellbeing. You’ve proven your value yet again, Abigail.” His eyes wandered over the half-covered bruises on her face and arms, and he frowned. “I will bring her up to one of the rooms upstairs- if you would summon the doctor?”

Abigail hesitated, and André sighed in an exasperated way. “I will do all I can not to alarm her. But I don’t think you could carry her up the stairs.”

He had a point; she nodded, and headed for the door, throwing one last glance at Philomena as she ducked into her room to grab her cloak.

 

* * *

 

 

Philomena’s perception of time was muddled, in the haze of fever in which she drifted. There were moments when she broke the surface for a handful of seconds or minutes, but she could make no guess at to how much time separated those moments.

At first, she would wake afraid, with a racing heart and a knot in her stomach, convinced that she was back in that miserable cellar with the men hurting her. But instead, Abigail’s gentle hand would reach up and touch her shoulder or her hair, and stay there until she could breathe again.

Abigail was almost always there in those waking moments; coaxing her into drinking something, or re-bandaging her injuries. Once or twice an unfamiliar man was there, a doctor, with a stern face and a loud voice that broadcasted his disapproval with the situation quite clearly.

Occasionally, André was there, nothing more than a crimson-coated at the corner of the room, or a face that ducked into the room for a moment. In her semi-delirium, she tried to hide from him, closing her eyes as if that would hide her.

Guilt gnawed at her in those waking moments. She had to tell him, but the thought brought her right back to that room, and the men her confession out of her blow by blow.

For now, Abigail seemed to still be standing in the Major’s way; or maybe her condition was truly so bad that he didn’t want to risk stressing her. Whatever the reason for the reprieve, the relief each time she woke and no one asked her to speak of it was sickening and overwhelming.

Abigail and she did speak, sometimes. Of trivial things, mostly; Philomena slowly regained her ability to chatter as her bruised, split lips healed, and words ceased to be painful.

Sometimes they spoke of things not so trivial.

“I don’t think there is anyone in this world who would have noticed my disappearance, if I died,” Philomena mused one night, listening to the rattle of rain that had come and quenched the heatwave. She half-wished she was out in the weather; she was sick to death of the room. She had entertained half a dozen of André’s fellow officers here; it seemed so long ago now.

The sound of the rain and the wind, and the lingering shadows of her fevered dreams had put a strange cast to her thoughts.

Abigail glanced up from her sewing, but didn’t say anything. After a moment, she put down the red coat she was mending, and came to examine Philomena’s bandages and brush her hand across her brow.

“I think Major André would,” Abigail said after another moment. Her eyes stayed on her task, unwinding the bandages from the rope cuts on Philomena’s wrists, but Philomena could hear raised eyebrows in her tone.

She laughed, but the mention of his name made her stomach twist. “Maybe if I flatter myself.”

“Not so much flattery, I think,” Abigail said, still not looking at her. “You’re more than a… woman of the night, after all. And if he didn’t care for you, he wouldn’t have me here tending you.”

Philomena smiled. “I’m a resource, like every other pair of eyes he has.”

“I don’t have anyone to care either,” Abigail said. “Aside from my son…” Her voice trailed off, wistfulness carrying it off.

“Your son?” Philomena said, wincing as Abigail dabbed poultice on her raw wrists, and wrapped them in bandages. “Where is he?” The words left her mouth before her fevered brain could stop them; instantly, she wanted to snatch them back.

But Abigail only smiled. “On Long Island, with my former mistress.” She shook her head. “At least I know he’s safe. But being alone can be a burden. Especially in these dangerous times.” She began winding fresh bandages around the cuts. They were beginning to heal; the tinge of infection was fading into a more healthy shade. “But like you said before… women like us should look after each other.”

Philomena smiled, and Abigail grinned back, and for a moment Philomena didn’t feel alone at all.

“Whatever happened that you don’t wish to speak of,” Abigail said, on a sunny morning when Philomena managed to stand for the first time in weeks. “The Major is not a cruel man. He won’t hurt you.”

Philomena’s mouth twisted into a grimace, and she said nothing. She folded her hands in her lap and stared down at her wrinkled dress, not meeting the other woman’s eyes.

“Listen,” Abigail said, kneeling in front of her and taking her hands in her own. “I was terrified when I was first sent here. I… I had no reason to think that a man like him would be anything but cruel. And… one of my first days here, a man was stabbed to death at his dinner table. That certaintly didn’t put me at ease.” She smiled wryly.

Philomena stared at her, her eyes widening. “Abby, that is not…”

“But I came to see that Major André himself is a decent man,, despite the sort of people he deals with. He is fair, and practical. He values honesty, and he does inflict pain when he can avoid it. He is not a man who delights in cruelty.” Her hands tightened on Philomena’s. “If you are honest, he will treat you fairly.”

Philomena turned her face away. “I… thank you,” she said quietly. “I hope you are right.”

Days passed, and Philomena’s fever broke for good; she was recovering quickly, or so Abigail said. It did not feel quick at all to her, especially since she still spent an inordinate amount of time asleep. Just rising and walking across the room exhausted her. But the bruises from her ordeal had faded, and the cuts were fading with them.

It was a miracle that André had not confront her yet.

It was time she took the matters into her own hands. She was sick of being cooped up in a home that wasn’t her own, spending every waking hour hoping André wouldn’t decide today was the day to get answers from her. At her request, Abigail helped her dress, and left her a brush and some cosmetics she had managed to scrounge up.

Philomena sat at the mirror in the room, examining herself in the mirror. The face that stared back at her from the glass did not seem like her; it was some hollow-eyed girl with sharp cheekbones and skin that was far too pale. The damage from her ordeal was not yet gone; perhaps would never be completely gone. One of the men’s rings had cut deep into the flesh of her cheek, and the scabbed wounds would likely scar.

It was nothing that a bit of artifice and paint couldn’t conceal, she told herself. And the most dramatic change was her lose of weight and color; she could gain that back in time.

She attended to her face first, adding a few artful bits of color to her cheeks and lips and eyes, to help make up for the unhealthy pale tinge that still lingered on her features. Then she moved to her hair, brushing it carefully.

She was on her fiftieth brush stroke when footsteps made their way up the stairs. Not Abigail’s; she had grown well acquainted with her footsteps over the last few weeks.

“Major André,” she called.

The footsteps paused. A moment later, the Major walked into the room. He was dressed in his full military raiment, with every fold crisp and starched. He looked ready to march off on some assignment; but he stood nonchalantly in the doorway of the room as if he had all the time in the world. She watched him in the mirror, not quite able to bring herself to turn around.

“Philomena,” he said. A smile made the corners of his eyes crinkle in that endearing way she recognized all too well. “I’m glad to see you looking so well.”

“I betrayed you,” she blurted out. “I… I broke. I told those men who I was, who sent me… I told them your name.” She bit her lip, bracing herself for… something.

He stared at her for a moment, and then stepped forward, to stand beside her. “Philomena,” he said quietly, kneeling down beside her. “Is this what you did not wish to tell me?”

She nodded hesitantly, and was surprised when he smiled again.

“I am, frankly, relieved,” he said. “I was able to apprehend the men who tortured you, from what you told Abigail of them; their treatment of an innocent girl was enough evidence of their moral depravity, and rebel bent.” He chuckled. “They’re rotting in the Jersey as we speak, far from where they can do harm.”

Philomena stared at him, unable to believe that it was that easy. “But I… I told them who I was. I betrayed you.”

André’s expression grew serious. “That’s no small matter. But neither is torture. Full fledged officers of our army break under such conditions. I can hardly blame you for it; it doesn’t make you disloyal, not in my eyes.” He reached up to brush back a stray lock of hair from her face. “If I had suspected the men of that town to be so suspicious, I would not have sent you. It was an oversight by any means; your talents are best suited to more specific jobs.”

“I…” Suddenly, all the weight from the past weeks was gone, just like that. Philomena felt giddy, like she could get up and dance a minuet right there. She laughed. “I… I’m sorry… I…”

André laughed. “Nothing to be sorry for.” He stood up. “I’m glad you are regaining your health; you’ve become a valuable asset to me, Philomena. I won’t risk you so foolishly again. But I do have a job for you, once you have sufficiently recovered. I will be departing the city soon, but there is a man who bears watching here…”

And so Philomena’s world regained balance, as much balance as it ever had in her association with the Major.

She would not forget how much Abigail had done to protect her.


End file.
